قصائد أجنبية

Corona used to be just the name of a beer I’d have a few Twice a year On the odd occasion, I’d go out I wish I could go out

,Bathsheba came out to the sun ;Out to our wallèd cherry-trees ,The tears adown her cheek did run ,Bathsheba standing in the sun

What happened is, we grew lonely ,living among the things ,so we gave the clock a face ,the chair a back

First there was some other order of things never spoken .but in dreams of darkest creation

I have a fairy by my side ,Which says I must not sleep When once in pain I loudly cried ”It said “You must not weep

A boat, beneath a sunny sky Lingering onward dreamily –In an evening of July

,Like many folk, when first I saddled a rucksack – feeling its weight on my back the way my spine – curved under it like a meridian 

Elephants walking Along the trails Are holding hands .By holding tails

We were characters in a story .the writer couldn't bring himself to finish When he left us it was late, a child was crying, newsprint smudged on our fingertips

Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) They hung my black young lover .To a cross roads tree

.been scarred and battered .My hopes the wind done scattered

,Dream-singers ,Story-tellers ,Dancers —Loud laughers in the hands of Fate

,I went down to the river .I set down on the bank ,I tried to think but couldn't .So I jumped in and sank

I dream a world where man ,No other man will scorn Where love will bless the earth And peace its paths adorn

When I get to be a colored composer I'm gonna write me some music about Daybreak in Alabama And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it

I am hoping to hang your head on my wall —in shame

;The first, violent year I could not swim or font A dark and balanced fear .Hung on me like a coat

,Observe the weary birds e’re night be done ,How they would fain call up the tardy Sun ,With Feathers hung with dew ,And trembling voices too

,Once, I was in New York in Central Park, and I saw an old man in a black overcoat walking a black dog. This was springtime

There is a house now far away where once ,I received love……. That woman died The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved Among books, I was then too young

,There was an Indian, who had known no change Who strayed content along a sunlit beach Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange .Commingled noise: looked up; and gasped for speech

,The night we fled the country, Papi ,you told me we were going to the beach ,hurried me to get dressed along with the others while posted at a window, you looked out

.I should have visited more often .I should have taken the sour pudding they offered .I should have danced that lousy beggar shuffle .I should have painted their rooms in a brighter color

!His Grace! impossible! what dead !Of old age too, and in his bed ?And could that mighty warrior fall !And so inglorious, after all

,Jamie MacCrystal sang to himself ;A broken song without tune, without words ,He tipped me a penny every pension day .Fed kindly crusts to winter birds

All legendary obstacles lay between ,Us, the long imaginary plain The monstrous ruck of mountains ,And, swinging across the night

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جون مونتاغ، تحتوي القصيدة على ذكريات المتحدث المليئة بالحنين إلى العمل الروتيني الذي أكمله في شبابه.

,We match paces along the Hill Head Road ;the road to the old churchyard of Errigal Keerogue .its early cross, a heavy stone hidden in grass

:All around, shards of a lost tradition From the Rough Field I went to school In the Glen of the Hazels. Close by ;Was the bishopric of the Golden Stone

,Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race ,Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours ;Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace ,And glut thy self with what thy womb devours